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the highs and lowshttps://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2014/07/05/the-highs-and-lows/
https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2014/07/05/the-highs-and-lows/#respondSat, 05 Jul 2014 15:52:38 +0000http://indiegandolfi.com/?p=1581On the labour ward, there is no distinction between high and low risk women, and in any case, the 1000-bed hospital had only two doctors so their assistance was a rarity even when there were obstetric or medical complications. Given there is a maximum of four free antenatal appointments per pregnancy (for those who can afford to travel the vast distances required from the furthermost reaches of the central districts to reach the clinics that offer them), those with complications – pre-existing or pregnancy-induced – are unlikely to be identified in any meaningful way, and even if they are, there is very little to be done, with diagnostic investigations, equipment, and treatments even scarcer than doctors. What this left the labour ward with was a handful of highly-skilled, vastly knowledgeable, and completely dedicated nurse midwives, who had learnt, borne of necessity, to deal with everything from eclamptic fits to massive obstetric haemorrhage without the input of doctors. Regularly working 36-hour shifts, simply because if they went home there was no one else to see their women through the births, and delivering over 300 babies a month, the five principal staff members were boundlessly impressive, dealing with both normal and complicated labours and births calmly and effectively.

The shortcomings in staff numbers and the huge numbers treated was a stark surprise; the antenatal ward had 28 beds, 2 midwives, and 127 patients, with numbers in postnatal comparative. When the beds were all doubled up, women were required to find a spot on the floor, in the corridor, or on particularly busy days, outside. At least, we’d been told by one young girl, outside meant you could be with your guardian (the next of kin chosen to be with each woman in the post-natal period so that basic nursing care – washing, feeding, changing the sheets – were seen to) through the last month of pregnancy which women were required to spend in hospital as a result of the high maternal and perinatal mortality rates with birth in the hands of the traditional birth attendants, and through the early stages of labour. And it meant you were closer to the well to draw water for drinking, cooking, and washing. This policy had done good, with the maternal mortality rate dropping steadily, and the deaths experienced in Nkhotakota for the most part as a result of women bought to the hospital too late for any help to make a difference, and looking through the ledger of deaths to be audited, with ruptured uterus the leading cause.

Rates of literacy and education are low, and malnutrition, poverty, and infectious diseases high (with a 12% prevalence of HIV, one of the highest in Africa), which means that, despite the month required to spend in hospital before delivery, antenatal care is limited. For those who had had children previously, particularly the grand multiparas, perhaps one or two appointments were attended, predominantly to secure the free mosquito net they are entitled to. The distances, and the cost of transport, are crippling, so even to attend one appointment puts strain on an already precarious financial situation that many rural Malawians find themselves in. Even with government funding the ambulances’ supplies of fuel regularly run dangerously low. Women, then, often arrive in established labour present with previously undiagnosed breech, twins, anaemia, severe pre-eclampsia, cephalo-pelvic disproportion, the list goes on. But, stalwart and resolute, the midwives are there at the doors of the labour ward to treat and care for each woman who passes through, and hopefully, to see them on their way home with their babies in their arms.

The shortcomings are not limited to staff and fuel alone. Supplies of suture materials, sterile gauze, delivery packs, surgical blades (for when the scissors are blunt or simply missing), aprons, all at one time or another dwindle to just a few meagre offerings. So the midwives adapt, and carry on with their job, using blunt dissection and forceps to cut the umbilical cord, and cajoling absorbable sutures from the main theatre (if they have them, that is).

In the face of such challenges it is hardly surprising, then, to see a marked different in the attitudes towards childbirth in Malawi. Aside from the lack of birth partner, aside even from the complete absence of any form of pain relief save ambulation and sheer will power, the women it seemed to me, to accept rationally and silently their role in the labour and delivery, crying out only on occasion, and only when their baby’s head is crowning. There seems not to be the same emotional involvement, bearing a child is simply a normal step in life. With the baby checked over, weighed, and wrapped in chitenje (the ever-present, traditional, multi-colour strips of fabric with uses as multiple as their patterns), they are placed to the breast with no compunction and no concern – the posters outlining UNICEF’s BFI recommendations wholly unnecessary in a country where it goes without saying that babies are breastfed, regularly until two-years, and with no shyness in public places where there is not so much as a second glance in the direction of a feeding baby. The only time formula crossed the threshold of the postnatal ward was in my hands, recently purchased as a result of desperate, difficult roamings through the markets to feed a new-born whose mother had succumbed to hypovolaemia as a result of uterine trauma following the midline caesarean delivery of her baby necessitated by undiagnosed CPD, and, devastatingly for myself and the staff alike who had been by her side for the hours of her labour, and had attended the caesarean section to receive the baby, had passed away. Her death was difficult to comprehend, difficult to move past, not only for the tragedy that engulfed her family and the eight children who survived her, but also because it was wholly avoidable. Whilst hypovolaemia was the registered cause of death, that it was precipitated by the long gaps between post-natal maternal checks as a result of staff and facilities hugely stretched over capacity is undeniable. But even as we mourned her loss, the baby had to feed. And so, with deep breaths and a swallowed grief, I explained with the help of the midwife as translator (she’d not seen powder used so had little idea what to say) sterilisation and bottle-feeding to a heart-broken sister whose family lived without electricity, boiled water on the open fires that dotted the rural villages, and had barely enough to afford the kilos of maize, cassava, and rice needed to sustain the family, let alone the price of the formula.

That was one of many steep learning curves faced when working with challenges unimaginable to many. Having only recently undertaken a training course on neonatal stabilisation in the UK, I soon became a normal sight in the corner of the main theatre, waiting with linen still damp from the autoclave to receive the babies. Whilst gestation was widely unknown, calculated on admission in labour using measurements by fingers from the xephisternum rather than “dating scans”, many babies came in to this difficult world bawling and wriggling for all their might, ready to take their chances with an under-5 mortality rate of almost 10%. For those that didn’t, I became accustomed to using the “penguin” (a small plastic manual suction stored in chlorine to keep it as sterile as possible) to help dislodge mucus and, more often than not, fresh meconium, from lungs struggling for breath, and a bag valve mask for the rescue breathes, made all the more difficult by the lack of masks to fit a baby other than fully term. The ancient resuscitaires had ceased to work reliably, but the nursery had one with a heater, so it became a normal routine to find a midwife walking swiftly down the corridor with a beautifully, colourfully wrapped baby, hoping the heating was on and the space wasn’t already all taken under it, given at any one time there are likely to be three or more new-borns curled up in a line. There was one oxygen line in maternity, and one oxygen converter in the hospital, donated along with an ancient, cumbersome ultrasound machine by a western hospital. Still, it was all the hospital had, so they made do. With anywhere between four and six neonatal deaths a month, and about the same again for intra-uterine deaths and stillbirths, it should not have come as a shock that I was to experience both. And whilst these were difficult and terribly sad, they did not quite have the scale of tragedy with the maternal deaths. Where the doctors were largely absent from the moment-to-moment clinical running of the wards, the clinical officers took their places, offering what they could in terms of expertise and guidance. The compassion of the staff often broke through the trials of practicing under such circumstances, exemplified for me in one particular case.

A tiny new-born lay struggling for breath on the resuscitaire as I entered with my own colourful bundle needing the help of oxygen and warmth to establish his foothold on life. I looked to the clinical officer at her head, trying to use an outsized mask to coax the air into her and knocking again and again up against the impossibility of the situation. For every squeeze of the bag, most just slipped around the insufficient seal. When at last “bala”, “it is finished” was called, the woman next to me let out the long breathe of her own she had been holding, and no doubt willing into her child, and let her head fall dejectedly down, the pose mirrored by the exhausted clinical officer who had been battling for her life. The baby had been born prematurely at 24-weeks, an age where even in the best-equipped hospital it would be a challenge to pull her through, with the clinic she had reported to unable to stop the labour with tocolytics or mature her baby’s lungs with steroids. She sat and explained that she had known her baby wasn’t ready for life, and had requested to go home hours beforehand so that at least she could die surrounded by her family, but that the midwives and clinical officers had kept her in hospital against her will. It was a heart-breaking scene, the mother without her child alone in a place she didn’t know, but it was with great tenderness that the clinical officer quietly explained that they had to keep the baby in hospital to give her whatever slim chance she had a life, despite the impossible circumstances. He also offered her the ambulance to take her home, which, given the scarcity of fuel and that it was one of only two operating in the area, was the most that he could have done to reach across the crevasse of grief. And now I had the resuscitaire.

For every one of these moments of sadness there were many of unbridled joy; the two beautiful, healthy twins, delivery after delivery of perfect little babies, the mother’s mothers smiling and laughing at my attempts at speaking Chichewa, the midwives’ incredulity over the strangeness of the English, and the bonds made in the throes of labour, despite culture and language throwing up barriers. Lastly, being asked to name a baby after a long labour ending in an emergency caesarean and further surgery to repair the severed uterine artery and damaged bladder, through which I was able to remain alongside was the defining moment of my time in Malawi, and of being a student midwife, demonstrating all the best of the country and all I want to be as a professional. For anyone offered the chance to work overseas, embrace it. It will be frustrating, it will be challenging, and it will be difficult, but you will learn more than you could ever imagine and will meet extraordinary people along the way.

]]>https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2014/07/05/the-highs-and-lows/feed/0indiegandolfiNkhotakota District HospitalBedsResuscitaireHarriet + babymagic, millers, and the atlas mountainshttps://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2014/01/02/magic-millers-and-the-atlas-mountains/
https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2014/01/02/magic-millers-and-the-atlas-mountains/#respondThu, 02 Jan 2014 14:27:18 +0000http://indiegandolfi.com/?p=1509“Oh, no, we don’t go up there. Not now. There are bad people”. We were intrigued. It was my second time back in Morocco, and Khaled had announced one morning that we were heading up with him into the mountains to see a family friend. It sounded like an adventure, and whilst hours spent playing by the waterfall were wonderful, seeing a new place was something we could never say no to. I should have known, bringing Siany to Morocco, and introducing her to Khaled, that we would have ended up somewhere weird and wonderful… After, all, he’d already had us dressed up like Berber , playing with the monkeys, and showering in one of the littler waterfalls up near the plateau, with the ubiquitous drums providing our very own soundtrack, who knows what this next escapade had in store!

It was after many hours squashed into the car laughing and chatting with Khaled and his two friends who were coming along with us, getting progressively further and further into the High Atlas, and passing through fog and rain and eventually back into the sunshine, that we asked about one of the roads heading over the river and up one of the gullies.

We asked about the so-called “bad people”, and it soon transpired, as far as we could make out, that they were referring to a Taliban training camp. With wide-eyes we glanced at each and decided to leave it at that. The fewer stories we heard (and then somehow managed to overlook when reporting back home!) about AK47-wielding, extremists-in-training terrorising the very roads we were driving the better. And in any case, looking back out the window it was easy to concentrate instead on the beautiful scenery unfolding with every curve of the road. The idraran draran, the mountains of mountains, as they are known amongst the Berber, are certainly breathtaking, with a tough, rugged beauty…

Sometime later, we, almost accidentally it seemed, fell off the road and into the village where Khaled’s old friends live. He introduced us to the family, fed us the mint tea that is such a staple of Moroccan hospitality, and decided that we ought to go for a walk. So off we went! Along the way Khaled and Kachty talked to us about the world around us, gesturing to the house perched on top of the hill as the shaman’s, so positioned so he can always see everything going on in his little kingdom, calling greetings to the women with their scythes, and befriending the local donkeys. It was harvest time, and as we walked, we came across women, tiny and insignificant against their endless, towering landscape, doing battle with the crops, slowly but surely making their mark with huge piles of feathery wheat.

Some time later, having waded through streams, wandered through forests, and weaved our way through marsh and field alike, we came across a little cafe serving, of course, chai. In a misplaced streak of confidence, Siany challenged Khaled to a game of pool on the ancient, rickety table, and when that finished (fairly swiftly) we left him with a few local lads who had picked up the fight, and retreated back outside where I found Kachty regaling Siany in French with his tales of life as a desert Berber. With the limited French I know , and quick translations from Siany in French and Khaled in Berber, I could follow the conversation just enough. Madani, it transpired, had been one of the Berber who accompanied an Australian lady in her attempts, on foot and camel, to cross the Sahara. Many stories of blisters, dehydration, scorpions, and angry, grumbling camels ensued, keeping us entertained long into the hot afternoon.

After finding out way back with the help of a kindly local and his 4×4 pick up, Khaled took us deeper into the village, up on to the hills, to see the millers at work. It was quite something to see, with all the local horses and donkeys lined up and being driven round and round, before the men with their pitchforks had a turn separating the wheat and chaf. It wasn’t long before Khaled dived on in, of course, and gave it a go, hollering and whistling to get the line moving.

The harvest is extremely hard work, we were told, for everyone involved, from the women in the fields to the donkeys in the milling, but it is one of the only reliable sources of income for the village. After Khaled had thoroughly worn himself out, he flopped down next to me and I had a chance to ask about the mountain magic, and the shaman. He told me of the various curses and talisman’s available, from porcupine heads to dried scorpions, destined to bring love, malice, sickness, healing, all manner of good and bad to those to ask. The shaman is a formidable public figure, not one to be ridiculed or taken lightly, and real respect for the consequences of magic still rings through the mountain villages. What did Khaled think, I was interested in knowing? With a half smile, he turned to look up at the hilltop house and remained quiet, fingering the star compass he wore and would later pass on to me for safe travelling.

A late night of revellery and laughter chai, cards, smoke rings, and mountain herbs (accepted in an “ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies” kind of way) followed and when, approaching dawn, we all settled down in nests of blankets, curled up to avoid the cool night air, I looked up towards the shaman’s house, there was a flickering light emanating through the windows, glowing in the blackest night, and a hundred thousand stars, memories of time and history, pinpricks of light, I wondered how long both had been watching over this little world high in the Atlas Mountains, and how much longer still they would be able to protect it.

The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody’d move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole…

JD Salinger, Catcher in the Rye

One of my favourite ways to spent time in a city is to visit their museums. All over the world, from the Middle East to the Far East to the Deep South, museums give the perfect place to cool off from the sun, get out of the cold, or take a break from the hustle and bustle of urban life. Museums, collections of things of beauty and significance, play such an important role in safeguarding our history, right from it’s earliest tangible times, all the way through to the present day. The Louvre in Paris, New York’s MoMA and Metropolitan Museum of Art, Washington’s Smithsonian, Florence’s Uffizi Galeria, Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, the Palace Museum in Taipei or Cairo’s Egyptian Museum, all, for very good reason, are touted as being amongst the most impressive museums in the world. These are my three:

The Natural History Museum, London

Nothing brings back the spellbound wonder felt in childhood like walking in those big doors and coming face to face with a diplodocus. Specifically, Dippy. And, brilliantly, that wonder doesn’t fade. Around every corner there is something else fascinating. London’s Natural History Museum is a one of my favourite places, and somewhere I would always encourage visitors to go. There are always amazing temporary exhibits, the BBC’s Wildlife Photography of Year amongst them, and so many unusual and fantastic things going on, the night time free music concerts as an example, as well as the permanent collection. Now, London is hardly short of impressive or fantastic museums, counting also the British Museum in it’s number, and whilst that is incredibly comprehensive and home to the Rosetta Stone, it is the interactive nature of the artefacts from the NHM that nudges it just ahead in my mind.

The Israel Museum, Jerusalem

For diversity and scope, the Israel Museum is absolutely up there in terms of fantastic museums. Not just it’s main attraction, the Dead Sea Scrolls and it’s fantastic commentary (narrated with real passion!), but beyond that, the Israel Museum is without a doubt the most eclectic collection of any museum I’ve seen. With wide, light galleries and fun, quirky outdoor exhibitions for those who’ve seen a few too many spearheads, it gets the balance just right, and the epitome of modern protecting antiquities comes in the form of the Shrine of the Book, pictured below.

The Hermitage, St Petersburg

Ornate glamour and beautiful splendour abound, the Hermitage is an extraordinary collection in an extraordinary building. A museum of art and culture, it, for me at least, epitomises the romance and extravagant, grandiose glory of St Petersburg. As well as housing some of the most renowned pieces in the world – Michaelangelo’s statues, paintings from Picasso, Rembrandt, and Da Vinci- the Hermitage is also home to endless other priceless artworks and artefacts, and on top of that every wall, every floor, every ceiling, all have been built with utmost care to aesthetic detail. That Orbeli, the curator during the World Wars, refused to leave the street of St Petersburg until the collection was safely, secretly, smuggled from the city, says much about the importance of such a museum. I was captivated before even walking through the golden-tipped gates… it isn’t difficult to imagine how the Hermitage existed before it became a Museum, as the beautiful Winter Palace and numerous other royal buildings of the Tsar’s family. And, for those willing to brave the queues, there is free entry on Thursdays.

]]>https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/09/10/artefacts-and-artworks/feed/0london_natural_history_museum_panoramaindiegandolfilondon_natural_history_museum_panoramaNat_hist_1250628cVbmi9294450_10150813175285393_562181530_n300490_10150813173860393_1524651846_n309203_10150813174305393_1731991289_n308487_10150813173080393_225898755_n537967_10151502071135393_1154047083_n292257_10151502059595393_1915155354_n148297_10152522221950393_1908325228_n523467_10151502044880393_808710356_nthe gentleman’s djellabahttps://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/07/08/islam-of-the-quran/
https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/07/08/islam-of-the-quran/#respondMon, 08 Jul 2013 19:04:03 +0000http://indiegandolfi.com/?p=1373Time and again, following atrocities perpetrated by extremist individuals, we seek someone to blame. Time and again, Islam is purported as the reason, it being a religion of evil, violence, threat, and terror. And yet, time and again, we see the religious leaders taking a stand in expressing the abhorrence of these actions. Having been in Marrakesh just prior to the 2011 bombing of the Argana cafe, and in Eliat, Israel when the Egged bus heading to the seaside resort was shot upon, not to mention reading innumerable stories from blasts in Pakistan, bombs in Iraq, and the ever-present troubles from Afghanistan, I, like many others, have some small sense of the fear felt by those living, visiting, or working in volatile zones. Even today, wandering across the Jmaa El-Fnaa, it is hard to miss the skeletal remains, still in the long, slow process of being rebuilt and re-entering bustling Marrakeshi life. Two years ago, this was a favoured ice-cream spot, but now I took up residence across the plaza, and sat with a mint tea to watch.

At that moment, serendipitously, a gentleman who I had idly been watching walk out of afternoon prayers from the mosque opposite, came and took a seat at an adjoining table. He too ordered tea, and he too looked out across the movement and life of the square. Dressed in a flowing white djellaba, which was what had caught my eye, and looking very cool and collected he sat with poise. I turned back to the scenes unfolding in front of me and thought no more of it.

The gentleman’s djellaba.

Before too long, an altercation snapped me out of my reverie. It seemed that the cafe staff, perhaps under instructions from the wealthy Western patrons, had taken issue with the wandering salesmen bringing their wares for the consideration of those, like me, drinking tea or coffee. These particular young men, there were two of them (from Senegal, later conversations revealed), were selling carvings, beads, and paintings in the style of their Western African origins. Having exchanged, what seemed to me, quite harsh words with the cafe staff, they were asked to leave, quickly.

At this, the gentleman sitting next to me beckoned them over, offered them both seats, and ordered a Coke for each. That, I sat thinking, is how we ought to see Islam. As a religion of acceptance and mercy: the Islam of the Qur’an, not the Islam of Al Qaeda.

Understandably, there is much anger and much fear that surround violent, destructive, extremist acts, and it is natural for us to look for something to blame. Sadly, this is often the religion of Islam, not as a result of legitimate reason, but instead because of misinterpretations, misquotations, and misunderstandings. The Qur’an itself is exemplary of this; Allah is not cited as a God of wrath or revenge, but in 113 out of 114 of the verses, He is introduced as the “God of Mercy”, the texts are not sources of hatred or aggravation, but of hope and solace. Innumerable Muslim scholars denounce the actions perpetrated by terrorists in the name of Allah, foremost amongst them are Shaikh Alfifi Al-Akiti, from Oxford Centre for Islamic Studies, who published a fatwa denouncing terrorism, describing suicide bombings as an innovation with no basis in Islamic law, and Shaikh Tahir ul-Qadri, the head of the Awami Tehrik Party of Pakistan, responsible for a 600-page fatwa condemning killing of innocents and condemning all suicide bombers unconditionally, the list goes on. And it is this that I believe it is incredibly important to bear in mind, even when facing the devastation that so many families experience.

]]>https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/07/08/islam-of-the-quran/feed/0indiegandolfiacrobats 2P1010938rooftopslessons learnt the hard wayhttps://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/04/13/lessons-learnt-the-hard-way/
https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/04/13/lessons-learnt-the-hard-way/#respondSat, 13 Apr 2013 18:12:17 +0000http://indiegandolfi.com/?p=1298On the whole, Siany and I consider ourselves to be rather adept travellers, making friends easily wherever we happen to find ourselves and often ending up with wild and wonderful memories as a result (diving with manta rays off a volcanic island over 500miles from any land mass is one such experience that comes to mind!). The same would prove true later in Kyrgyzstan, Morocco, Israel, Kenya…to this day, there’s not a single place I’ve come away from without a new found friend, most of which is due to the fact that people are good and kind and welcoming – eager to show of their country and ways, and just as eager to learn about ours!

And Malaysia was no exception. We had a splendid time basking in the tropical paradise of Tioman with our newly acquired kimodo-wrestling, beach-bar-owning friends Joey and the gang (above photo), which led us eventually into the ocean in an attempt to find the islands’ resident sharks to swim with. Which meant it was rather incredulously, and with more than a little trepidation that we did finally have to face our brush with being in hot water. Though perhaps pleasantly cool, salty water might be a more apt description….

Time and time again we went over what had happened, wandering what we should have done differently. Given, either together or apart, we had hitch-hiked on four different continents, we knew that we had either been extremely lucky, or, as I much prefer to think, people, on the whole, are actually kind and trustworthy and good. We’ve only been proved wrong this once. So this is a cautionary tale, we haven’t stopped hitchhiking, nor trusting, but we are both a little more wary now.

Siany and I were on our way to the floating mosque, the Tengku Tengah Zaharah, in Terranganu; we had managed the bus schedule and were wandering along trying to find it (you’d have thought it wouldn’t have been hard to miss really!), when we were passed by a guy on a moped. This wasn’t unusual, lots and lots of people rode around on mopeds, so we didn’t think much of it. Nor did we when he drove back passed the second time. But by the third our instincts were on edge. We decided to turn off the road, to go down a side street. And, in a move that had us glancing nervously at each other, our moped friend followed. With a stroke of serendipity, at the end of the little road we chose there was a gate. Given we were feeling quite vulnerable at this point, we decided to go through the gate onto the beach, with the hope that he wouldn’t bother coming after us. For a little while, we thought we might be okay.

But then, still clad (rather melodramatically) in motorbike gear, including a downright intimidating helmet, the man decided to saunter after us. At first, his advances seemed innocent, he offered to be our “friend, friend”, but it didn’t take long for him to lunge for Siany, first for her physically, then when he realised that we weren’t having any of that (and I, inexplicably, and with one finger raised in the air to point at him as if he were a naughty school child, had shouted with a real, deep anger “NO! YOU DO NOT TOUCH HER!”, which I later realised might have been channelling Hermione Granger during her attempts to stop Hagrid’s half-brother giant from eating them.. we were English to the end!), finally going for a bags. A bit of a tousle ensued, with all of us variously grabbing and pulling and landing punches on the other (although, I did seem to get the lion’s share of the hits, mainly because Siany, at this point, was dancing around us “oi”-ing our still helmeted mugger, a point in this story that still has us both in stitches today just remembering), until finally I managed to get a real good grip on it. The failing mugger stepped back a little and reached into his back, at which point I was certain, absolutely certain, that he was about to pull out a knife and then things would really take a turn for the worse. Something look over, instinct fear, I’m not sure what, and, for reasons still baffling to me, I turned and decided to run, hell-for-leather, into the ocean, yelling at Siany to follow.

If you can imagine, though, when I turned around (up to my shoulders in water), I looked back up the beach to see, side-by-side, with very similar expressions of surprise and puzzlement on their faces, Siany and our mugger, just staring at me. It was a bit of a impasse really, they were too baffled by me, and I was too incensed by what had just happen and, actually, just somewhat surprised to find myself in the water, to move at all. So that’s how we stayed then for a while really, until our mugger back off, turned away, and went back through the gate and out of our lives. We just wanted to get out of there, without even sparing the time to pick up Siany’s dearly beloved flipflops.

Later that day we did make it to the mosque, and it was beautiful, and as we sat and looked across the water with the high white columns and intricate architecture reflected back into the lake and the clouds in the skies above, our frayed nerves finally settled.

And there, on the beach, we learnt a lesson, the ones that our parents had tried time and time again to drill into us, the hard way!

]]>https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/04/13/lessons-learnt-the-hard-way/feed/0314696_10150831924100393_56894974_nindiegandolfi40275_10150241726690545_956389_n405902_10151317029065393_2136219459_n314696_10150831924100393_56894974_nthe wall and the west bankhttps://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/04/04/life-behind-the-apartheid-wall/
https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/04/04/life-behind-the-apartheid-wall/#respondThu, 04 Apr 2013 18:01:59 +0000http://indiegandolfi.com/?p=1235It was difficult not to hear things about the West Bank, to maintain an open-mindedness. Written about as full of danger, with anger and sadness and violence around every corner, we thought quite hard before deciding to visit the contested territories of Palestine. I understood Callum’s reluctance. We had had a beautiful, endlessly happy time wandering the streets of Jerusalem, the ancient walls of Acre, and the beaches at Mikhmoret… why would we want to jeopardise that?

In the end though, we decided we had to go. It was too important an area to stay away from, with such a history and such a present. We took all the precautions we were told to, hiding away cameras and taking out SD cards of photographs of Israel. We made sure to have nothing on us that suggested that we were anything other than two young Christians on a pilgrimage to Bethlehem.

The approach to the Qalandia Checkpoint itself was eerie, with huge, intimidating signs, banning these people from going there, and those people from coming here, with barbed wire and armed guards. The streets in the settlements around Bethlehem were still pockmarked with bullet holes, and you got the sense that thought things at the moment felt calm, tension was rippling underneath it all. We knew there had been fighting (“terrorist attacks”) just days previously, at the Beit Shomron settlement, and that there were nets still stretched across the divided streets of Ramallah so that the molotov cocktails thrown would be caught up there rather than falling indiscriminately on the crowds making their way through their life below. But we wanted to see all this. It was one thing hearing it on he news, and following it on various political commentary sites, but an entirely different thing to actually be there.

We took buses out of the main touristy areas, walked the length of the apartheid Wall, saw where it cut through homes and farms, livelihoods and families.

It was difficult knowing that just on the other side there was Jerusalem. It felt a world away once we passed through the checkpoint. The intricacies of the relationship between Israel and Palestine are far too convoluted to try and explain, or even for us to try and really understand at the time, despite my having tried to soak up a full explanation from a brilliant political studies student with a particular interest in the Six Days War and it’s ramifications. We knew enough though, to understand the graffiti that lined the “security fence” (as the Israeli’s referred to it), the “apartheid wall” (the Palestinian term), the propaganda posters and flags that lined the walls, and the protesters heard in the distance. We were also aware that as we took the buses and wandered further away from the touristy areas, we were watched quite closely, and not altogether surreptitiously, by gun-toting locals.

When we tried to return to Israel, back through the checkpoint, we were watched with even more suspicion. Despite trying to keep up the pretence of the Christian experiences – with “Holy” water, and small statues – we knew that if they realised we were anything more, we could potentially run into trouble. Having decided we were okay to leave, much like we were okay to enter in the first place, and weren’t considered revolutionaries, the guards watched as we left, muttering under their breathe “yallah”… “go”. It didn’t particularly feel like a piece of friendly advice.

But aside from that, aside from the fighting and anger, those we met and talked to, whilst we were visiting Bethlehem’s Church of the Nativity in particular, were very proud, and very welcoming. They knew they had an incomparable history, and not all of it about cultures tearing themselves apart, and were excited and pleased that we were so genuinely interested in learning about it. We left the West Bank with mixed feelings, and it is very hard not to. On the one hand, there are so many terrible things happening there, for so many terrible reasons, but on the other there is such an amazing sense of the history and formation of a world religion.

It is an extraordinary place, and once we were settled back in our little rooftop kingdom in Jerusalem’s Old City, no longer feeling the need to always be watchful, we could reflect more openly on life behind the Apartheid Wall.

]]>https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/04/04/life-behind-the-apartheid-wall/feed/0indiegandolfi303217_10150813140170393_963052914_n309542_10150813139865393_1300525208_n311963_10150813126685393_1794335872_n319528_10150813133885393_1080504116_n299338_10150813133220393_1405112594_n297435_10150813137310393_1364383397_n293947_10150813138510393_1173674177_n311418_10150813123005393_1069044569_n308548_10150813115855393_1802723959_n308188_10150813119095393_950994582_n294863_10150813123640393_2056970192_ndancing lights and day-long darkesshttps://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/03/21/dancing-lights-and-day-long-darkess/
https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/03/21/dancing-lights-and-day-long-darkess/#respondThu, 21 Mar 2013 22:48:42 +0000http://indiegandolfi.com/?p=1175For an awfully long time I had dreamed of going to see the Aurora Borealis, and at last, in December last year I was able to do just that. It was off to Tromsø with Chrissy, Billy, and Amber, to the Arctic Circle, the dancing lights, the Sami and their reindeer, to long nights and short days, and a sun that barely grazes the horizon.

Touching down in Oslo and waiting for the connecting flight offered up several hours of wonderful people watching. Having come fresh from Kyrgyzstan, which was still bathed in sunlight, seeing Canadian Goose jackets and Ugg boots wander past, still shaking off the snow, was remarkable. I love people watching at the best of times, so I was quite happy sitting and watching, trying to pick out the Arctic scientists, the fishermen, and the explorers.

We landed in the snow and the twilight – which turned out to be all but perpetual at that time of year – and navigated the darkness of Tromsø to find our beds for the night. Up first thing for an incredible breakfast of Norwegian salmon, we headed out to explore. It’s a delightful little place, all winding streets and little old buildings, as well as the very impressive Polaris museum, the amazing Cathedral, and not to mention the northern most brewery in the world (bearing in mind that almost everything here is the northern most something, we all still got disproportionately excited by this fact!). Having spent the last 6 months landlocked in Kyrgyzstan, it was amazing to be back by the sea…

The island around Tromsø – Tromsøya and Kwaløya – were absolutely breathtaking. Incredible fjords and huge, rugged mountains, it’s a stark and beautiful landscape, with tiny little villages nestled into the smallest of cracks. In the terrific cold, huge long icicles had formed, not to mention the frozen waterfalls and lakes.

Of course, it was the lights we were here to see, so for three nights, all bundled up against the plummeting temperatures, out we headed in a tiny, rickety car, braving sleet and frost. We had expected to see the lights in all their brightness and dancing with the naked eye, and hadn’t quite put it together that you don’t get their full brilliance until you see the photographs. There is something quite magical though, about seeing them come alive in a photograph. In reality, they are a pale, ghostly white tinged through with greens and reds, and whilst they do move it isn’t quite like you see on television. And yet despite that, there is something undeniably otherworldly about them. I, for one, was entranced.

Tromsø is still a busy port town, so all around the harbour are boats at various stages of preparation either heading out to see or winding down having just come back in. Having spied a likely looking scientific expedition vessel, I decided to invite myself on board and have a little nosy! I also met, and drank several hot chocolate with, a lovely young Sami man and his reindeer. He explained the herding, and left me with a perfect little souvenir from Norway, a stitched piece of the reindeer sleigh harness.

]]>https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/03/21/dancing-lights-and-day-long-darkess/feed/0indiegandolfiP1010790.RW2P1010799.RW2P1010804.RW2P1010655P1010657P1010915.RW2P1010864.RW2P1010830.RW2465228_10152404313840393_216466718_oP1010815.RW2P1010782.RW2P1010773.RW2P1010920.RW2a helping hand in hagglinghttps://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/02/01/a-helping-hand-in-haggling/
https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/02/01/a-helping-hand-in-haggling/#respondFri, 01 Feb 2013 20:41:23 +0000http://indiegandolfi.com/?p=1081Haggling. I’ve found that there are two ways to approach this particular travelling phenomenon. The first is to curse and gesticulate, capitulate and give up, and altogether hate every second of wandering down the packed-to-the brim stalls with the incessant calls of “best prices, BEST PRICES”. The second is to embrace it, and throw yourself fully and completely into the fray. Unsurprisingly, I belong firmly to the latter. I love haggling. Nothing beats it, and some of my favourite moments have sprung from those endless back and forwards, offers and negotiations, and (my favourite tactic) walking away. There is an art to haggling, it is something that ought be approached with finesse. This I’m yet to master, but, though I say so myself, I’m damn good at spotting what I want and refusing to budge even a dime on a top price. And, more often than not, the sellers will want to sell their wares more than you’ll want to buy them. So, here are my top tips to give you edge:

1. Smile and Gush

Stall holders often play the “oh, beautiful lady!” card. Who can’t be flattered by this, even knowing it’s a selling tactic? My counter approach is to get in there first, smile, introduce yourself, and make sure to say how delighted you are to be in their country, their city, at their stall, and above all, compliment the wares. But the trick here is, unlike the dear men in Marrakesh whose finest line was, and I quote “OH, SHAKIRA. HEY, SHAKIRA. I WILL GVE YOU HALF OF MOROCCO!”, don’t go overboard. Mean it. If you see a particular scarf or bowl that you like, tell them. There is nothing wrong with honest compliments and a friendly attitude, and whilst at the end of the day it is business, who knows, maybe that you approached with friendliness instead of impatience will get you somewhere.

Befriending a beachside stall holder in Rabat, Morocco. He’s now a patisserie chef, and someone I still hear from!

2. Diversion Tactics

Identify what you like, then choose something else and LOVE that. This works for me sometimes, it depends how convincing I am. But if you see something you really like – for me it was a little wooden lizard in Malaysia (for those who have read my post on the dragons of Tioman, why I chose a lizard as my little travel reminder won’t come as a big surprise!), with which I instantly fell in love with. Instead of leaping straight in to haggling for him though, I instead targeted a jewelled lantern, which I had (correctly) assumed would be far far more. After some back and forth over the prices for that, I sighed and sadly admitted: “I cannot spend that much, but you have been so kind and so helpful, and I understand that you cannot sell your things for that little, so I want to chose something! That little wooden lizard over there, he’s sweet, and would look good on my wall, and he can’t be that much?”. Success, the shop keeper was happy to go with the price I had set in my mind, and I walked away with little lizard! As I said, it doesn’t always work, but it’s certainly worth a try.

Far right, little wooden lizard safely installed at home! The much-loved result of a good diversion tactic.

3. Bluff

This was first deployed in a market in Mombasa, Kenya. My delightful Luo friend and adopted guide, Toto, had taken me to the famous street markets to buy some spices for my family back home. I was happily haggling away, convinced that I was, frankly, excellent when I heard a chuckle behind me. Toto took me aside, informed that I was being scandalously ripped off, and imparted what would soon to become very well-used advice: “if you are out as a girl on your own, just say your husband/father (depending on your age, and how well you can bluff) will not be happy if you spend that much”. Often shop keepers have responded well to this, and as much as it sounds like stereotyping, but he was absolutely right: particularly in areas where patriarchy reigns, this respect of your father’s wishes will go down a treat. My success story ended with a bag of saffron and a blend of famous Mombasa spices for cooking fish.

4. Walk Away

I know the feeling. You’ve been there for hours, it’s soo hot, and to be frankly honest, you never really wanted the damn dress in the first place. I know we’re all extremely polite, and so this may seem shocking, but it isn’t horribly offensive, and you can just walk away. Not only can this get you out of ending up with something you didn’t really want, but at times it can also get you exactly what you wanted! The number of times I’ve got to the end of my haggling tether, even with something I really wanted, and thought, right I will just walk away, and if it’s meant to be mine, they’ll come after me. Surely enough, having been friendly and enthusiastic from the beginning, the shop keeper often calls me back, albeit accompanied by “you’re robbing me!”, and we come to the agreement I’ve been pushing for for the last five minutes. Note: the only place this method hasn’t worked is the Karama Market, Dubai, those guys are tough to crack.

Marrakesh sorely tested my “just walk away” mantra. But sure enough, back I was summoned, and along with a lovely red pouffe for my brother, the shop keeper also insisted on tea and photographs!

5. Never, Ever Go Above Your Price

After accepting that yes, you will be charged more as a tourist, and after setting the uppermost price boundary for yourself, the trick is not to budge. Don’t be tempted to just go that little bit higher. I know it might only be the difference between £12, and £18, which doesn’t seem an awful lot, but remember that you can always swing back around later after a cooling off period and face the haggle again, and more often than not, there is a stall just along the way with very similar articles! My absolute exception to this is antiques or artefacts. If you have a guarantee that what you’re after is a genuine antique, not a Made in China, and if you really want it, then don’t fuss yourself over a few pounds. And whilst this may seem contradictory to the overall tip of never, ever going above your price, what’s priceless is knowing what is worth those pounds (like an antique) and what just isn’t (knock off bags, trinketty jewellery, scarves). Start low, I go for a quarter of the asking price, regardless of whether I’m actually willing to pay, say half. It’s not a problem to give a little and offer more, but is insulting and offensive to drop down again.

Swinging back around again to the Jerusalem markets later in the evening after resisting going above my flight the previous day.

6. Make a Local Friend

I see nothing wrong with stall holders having a price for tourists, and a price for locals. This is their livelihood, and yes of course someone travelling is likely to have more money to spare than a local. But this doesn’t mean I’ll just accept that hands down instead of finding foxy ways to get around it. My favourite is befriending a local. If I haven’t managed to make a genuine friend on the road, which happily I normally do, then it gets more difficult. But my favourite shopping companion in Kyrgyzstan was Suiunbek, who I trusted entirely, and regularly dragged along to the markets with me, offloaded a shopping list and handful of som onto, and sent into the wild depths of Osh Bazaar. I knew he could get me prices I would never be able to get, and I was quite happy in the knowledge that even if I had successfully sidestepped the local-tourist prices, before long other tourists would come by to be ripped off so I wouldn’t dent the economy too much. Plus, it’s unavoidable, I’ve been ripped off in the past, and will be ripped off again in the future, so am perfectly guilt-free in sidestepping when I can.

It’s a little more convincing to send a friend to get spices, like here in Jordan, than dresses, which I tried to send poor Suiunbek to do in Bishkek once!

]]>https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/02/01/a-helping-hand-in-haggling/feed/0316331_10150813178720393_1453329406_nindiegandolfi8405902_10151317029065393_2136219459_n25262_10150169292060338_862206_n218027_10150586823250393_8236596_n316331_10150813178720393_1453329406_n321121_10150813950810393_2075227364_nskiis, sunshine, and a german shepherdhttps://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/01/06/sunshine-and-a-german-shepherd/
https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/01/06/sunshine-and-a-german-shepherd/#respondSun, 06 Jan 2013 21:22:48 +0000http://indiegandolfi.com/?p=1006Up in the mountains, life is idyllic. A blanket of fresh snow graced the slopes, the blue-green pines just poking through, birds gliding idly across the bright blue skies…

And then, howling with laughter, tears streams down our faces, snow still clinging to scarves and hats from when we’d fallen of the piste (not for any remotely intentional reason) and toppled into the drifts, came Siany and I.

It was our third day of throwing ourselves down the mountain, strapped to skis for me, and a board for Siany, and it was fabulous! The laughter hadn’t stopped, and each new run bought new reasons for us to break down uncontrollably. One day, our little travel toys even made their way up the slopes with us…

Then, as I threw aside my skis and poles whilst recuperating at a cafe after a particularly unfortunate set of misjudgements of angle of slope + speed of decline, I was pounced on by a very pretty and very silly German Shepherd. She was tied to a big wooden totem pole that, within seconds of my having settled down in the snow for a well-deserved chance to nurse some bruises (and some pride!), was removed by two jolly German gentlemen on skis who then proceeded to, inexplicably, ski off down the hill with the pole, leaving me, bewildered, with my new charge. We wandered over to Siany, who had found a spot on a picnic bench, and sat down. After sometime of people coming up and asking to stroke our still unnamed pooch, we started to wonder who she actually belonged to, and why they’d not said anything to my appearing to have casually walked off with their quite dashing pedigree. Sending Siany and her French into the cafe, it soon transpired that, in fact, Mountain Dog belonged to noone. She was lost. Queue: animal rescue and Rolf Harris, mountain style.

Needless to say, Siany and I, without much hesitation and requiring really very little persuasion, agreed to take charge of Mountain Dog and head in some indiscriminate direction down and/or the mountain towards a train station/car park that may or may not exist. After skiing cross-country up- and downhill for several kilometres (and realising most of the way along one particularly treacherous path that we had in fact set off in completely the wrong direction, and so having to backtrack a fair distance), we found a sign to Barbelouse and, happily on track and grateful for our luck, continued our adventure through the Swiss Alps with our little Mountain Dog.

Before long, civilisation loomed in the form of a road appearing ( somewhat mysteriously) out of the snow, and after following it for half an hour we began to recognise our surroundings, albeit in a vague sort of way, stubbornly ignoring the fact that pretty Swiss chalets and snow-covered roads all look fairly similar. But, mostly unexpectedly, before long along trundled a tram, and off we went to the local Police Station where, we had been reliably informed, a microchip reader was at the ready to reunite man and dog.

Having navigated through the snow, across the pistes, up and down several hundred metres of altitude, and around the mountains of Villars, we were hesitant to just give up Mountain Dog with no idea of what would happen next, so, again, Siany and her French were deployed to recce the situation. Happily, the friendly policewoman told us with a smile that our Mountain Dog was quite the Houdini, that this was in fact the second time she’d been bought to the station, and that yes, they would make sure her owners were found. We bade farewell to dog, and set off back into the Swiss snow, awaiting the next set of unpredictable circumstances that undoubtedly this holiday would bring us!

]]>https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2013/01/06/sunshine-and-a-german-shepherd/feed/0IMG_0255indiegandolfiDSCN0374DSCN0426DSCN0392DSCN0419DSCN0415DSCN0452DSCN0453DSCN0456bright lights: dublin, irelandhttps://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2012/12/16/bright-lights-dublin-ireland/
https://indiegandolfi.wordpress.com/2012/12/16/bright-lights-dublin-ireland/#respondSun, 16 Dec 2012 21:24:00 +0000http://indiegandolfi.com/?p=965Come December, beautiful Dublin, framed by canals, and full of lively Irish bars, is bedecked with Christmas lights. As a city, it oozes character, with old Georgian buildings, pedestrianised streets, and, of course, the charm of the Irish!

Despite the cold winds whipping straight off the canals, I couldn’t resist my favourite blackcurrant and raspberry ice smoothie! Curled up in one of the comfy sofas and watching the Irish world go by was the perfect way for the anthropologist in me to spend an evening.

The Bank of Ireland had joined in with the festive spirit that had entranced the rest of the city, with it’s very own beautiful big Christmas tree!

Grafton Street is full of a huge variety of amazing street performers, including of course a leprechaun and a sweet old Irish dancer! Here is a quick taste…